


Should've, Could've, Would've

by being_alive



Series: The Befores, The Afters, and The Inbetweens [2]
Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare, Romeo et Juliette - Presgurvic, Rómeó és Júlia (Színház)
Genre: F/M, Grief/Mourning, POV Second Person, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-27 06:18:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16697035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/being_alive/pseuds/being_alive
Summary: It has been but a fortnight since Juliet died when Lady Capulet comes to your room with a glass of wine in hand and a scowl on her face as she tells you, "Count Paris has informed Lord Capulet and I of his intention to carry through with his marriage plans.""But Juliet is dead," you say, confused as to why she's telling you this."Yes, my daughter is dead," she says, her voice breaking, and pauses to take another sip of wine before continuing, "But is not my daughter that he wishes to marry now."Oh, you think.Oh. With Juliet dead, you, as the daughter of Lord Capulet's only brother, have become the best Capulet prospect for Paris to marry.





	Should've, Could've, Would've

**Author's Note:**

> This turned out much longer (and sadder) than it was supposed to be.

It has been but a fortnight since Juliet died when Lady Capulet comes to your room with a glass of wine in hand and a scowl on her face as she tells you, "Count Paris has informed Lord Capulet and I of his intention to carry through with his marriage plans."

"But Juliet is dead," you say, confused as to why she's telling you this.

"Yes, my daughter is dead," she says, her voice breaking, and pauses to take another sip of wine before continuing, "But is not my daughter that he wishes to marry now."

 _Oh_ , you think. _Oh_. With Juliet dead, you, as the daughter of Lord Capulet's only brother, have become the best Capulet prospect for Paris to marry.

"He wishes to marry me," you say, panic welling up inside you because you remember how Lord Capulet had threatened Juliet when she'd refused to marry Paris. You don't want to get married, not now and especially not to _him_ , but you also don't want to upset your aunt and uncle, especially not after everything that has happened.

"Yes," Lady Capulet replies, simply, and takes a sip of her wine before saying, "He wishes to ask you himself, though, and he wishes to do it today."

"He's here, isn't he?" You ask with a sigh. Lady Capulet nods and says, "At the bottom of the stairs."

You nod, wishing you didn't have to make such a sudden decision. _If you get to make a decision at all_ , you think to yourself. Lady Capulet finishes her glass of wine and looks over you with sad brown eyes before turning and leaving your room. You sit on your bed for several moments to try to gather your nerve, before finally, eventually standing and slowly making your way from your room and down the hallway.

When you descend the stairs at the end of the hallway, you find Paris waiting for you at the bottom and your heart sinks to your stomach. Paris is attractive, you suppose, but in the way that men are expected to be handsome, handsome in an almost boring way, with none of Mercutio's wild, almost ethereal splendor or Tybalt's dark brooding beauty. His jaw is strong, his cheekbones fine, and his eyes a bright green. With his golden-brown waves of hair, he looks almost like a Capulet, even more than Tybalt did, Tybalt with his dark hair and foreign features. You wonder if one of Paris's parents was a Capulet bastard, or if he himself is one, and that's why he's so desperate to take a Capulet for wife, so that he'd be rejoining the family, in a way.

"Count Paris," you say as you step off of the bottom step and stand beside him. You've heard that Juliet's Montague stabbed him, but you suppose it was only a flesh wound and avoided anything important. Unfortunately for you, a snide voice in the back of your head chimes in.

"My lady," Paris says before pausing and then saying, "You know, I was supposed to have been married to your cousin."

"I know," you reply.

"Unfortunately for us both, Juliet is now dead," he says, and you want to laugh at the absurdity of this, because this is probably the least romantic proposal you've ever heard of, since thus far it's just been him telling you what you already know. You almost laugh at the realization that Mercutio, with his overt sexuality, was actually the more romantic of the two cousins.

"I know that as well," you say. "And what it means for you as well. You find yourself in lack of a bride now that she's dead."

"Will you be my bride, then?" Paris asks, reaching out and clasping your hands in his. You want more than anything to pull your hands away and let him know exactly how you feel about this whole thing, to yell at him that it's only been two weeks since she died and ask why if he'd wanted to marry her badly is he moving on so quickly. But you don't, you let him keep holding your hands because you know you don't really have any other choice but to say, after a moment's pause, "Yes."

He smiles at you and you despair because even his teeth are perfect, too straight and too white. Two of Tybalt's teeth had been broken in a fight, one of them an eye tooth and the other one of his side teeth, you remember, and two of Mercutio's front teeth were crooked in different ways. Even Juliet's teeth weren't perfect; her own upper eye teeth had come in too high.

"Good," he says, still smiling, finally releasing your hands. "I'll talk to Lord Capulet. How does marrying in a week's time sound?"

"Fine," you say, wishing you had more time, but also knowing that it perhaps is better to just get this done and over with. He kisses your cheek and then leaves. You're left standing there, your skin crawling from his kiss, despair growing inside you as panic pounds a frantic beat in your stomach. You need to go lie down, you decide, so you go back up the stairs, clinging to the banister all the while.

As a child, you'd sometimes shared a bed with Juliet, and had stayed up for hours with her, talking the night away. You consider laying in her bed, like you did then, but anger fills you at the thought of doing so, anger because she is dead and you have to marry Paris because she loved that Montague too much to live without him even though he'd slit Tybalt's throat. And besides, you know that Lady Capulet has taken to sleeping in Juliet's bed lately, while Lord Capulet remains in the bed where he's always slept, and you don't want to face her either, not after Paris.

Instead, you pass both your room and Juliet's and go straight to the room that was once Tybalt's. You open the door, almost expecting to see him inside, sitting cross-legged on his bed with his sword across his lap as he cleans it, but then you remember that not only is today not Tuesday but also that his sword was buried with him. Tears come to your eyes and you close the door and lay down on his bed, sobbing into the pillow that still smells like him. If he were still alive, you know that he'd chase Paris away for you, the way he was trying to do for Juliet, the way he did to Mercutio the one time he'd tried to kiss you. 

You can remember it like it was yesterday even though it was a few years ago now. You'd been out, walking through the markets with Tybalt and a few of your other cousins, when Mercutio had suddenly appeared in front of you. He was charming and you were nervous because your cousins were elsewhere and even though you'd never liked Mercutio much, there was no denying how beautiful he was. Suddenly, he'd leaned in and you just had time to realize that he was going to kiss you when Tybalt was there, pulling Mercutio away from you and punching him. A fight had resulted from that, and at one point Mercutio had knocked all the apples of a fruit seller onto the ground and Tybalt had lost half of his upper left eyetooth. You'd been mad at Tybalt at first, but later you found out that Mercutio had had a bet with a few Montague boys over who could kiss a Capulet first, and then you were thankful that Tybalt had pulled him away. 

Only that was then and this is now, and now both of them are rotting in their crypts, Mercutio with his wild hair and his blood-stained purple clothing and Tybalt with his fine sword and that Capulet-red slash on his neck, and Juliet too, in what would've been her wedding dress with her Montague boy beside her, and you wish they were all here or that you were down there with them. You consider getting up and finding one of the knives you know that Tybalt kept in his room and doing what Juliet did. 

You wonder if they'd bury you next to Tybalt, or next to Juliet, and the thought just makes you sob harder because it's only been two weeks and you miss all of them, you miss Tybalt's smile and that twinkle Juliet would get in her eyes whenever something made her happy, and you even miss the sound of Mercutio's laugh, for all that you hated it in life. Now they're all gone and you're left with Paris. You lay there and close your eyes, wondering if you'll fall asleep and find that this is all a dream. 

The next thing you know, it's the morning, sunlight streaming in through gaps in the curtains. You keep your eyes closed for longer than you have to, and nearly manage to convince yourself that when you open then, you'll be in your bed, with Juliet beside you, and with Tybalt about to knock on the door to tell you that it's time for breakfast. You open your eyes and find yourself exactly where you fell asleep, alone on top of Tybalt's bed, in the bedroom he'll never use again, with only the sunlight for company. Your eyes itch from crying so much, so you rub them and then rise with a sigh. You get up and walk out of the bedroom, and can almost imagine that Tybalt is sitting on his bed, only to glance back and find only the imprint your body had left on the bed. You close your eyes, hoping that you won't cry again, and walk out, shutting the door behind you. 

The days go by quicker than you'd like them to, and Lord Capulet tells you that your wedding is to be next Tuesday, but you beg him to either make it a day earlier or later, you don't care which even if it means marrying Paris sooner than you'd planned to. Just any day but that day because Tuesday is Tybalt's day and it feels like an insult to his memory to have the wedding and what comes after on his day. Lord Capulet concedes when you start crying, and your wedding is moved to the Wednesday of next week. _At least you have a bit longer to prepare and despair_ , you think to yourself, but it doesn't feel like much of a consolation, all things considered.

The Thursday before your wedding, Paris comes to see you with two bottles of wine, one as a gift for Lady Capulet and the second to share between the two of you. You sit awkwardly beside him on a bench in an especially sunny part of the gardens. He talks about everything and nothing all at once, even once gesturing so emphatically that he sloshes red wine onto the front of his fine golden shirt. 

The act itself is what makes you start to realize that Paris is human too, even if he is the nephew of the Prince and even if you don't wish to marry him, but there's something about the look in his eyes when he peers down at the location of the stain that makes you feel a twinge of pity for him, because the stain looks almost blood. He excuses himself after that, one shaking hand resting on the stain, covering it from view, and leaves so quickly that you'd think someone was chasing him. He leaves you with the rest of the wine, and both the glasses, so you take the glasses to the kitchen and the wine to Lady Capulet, and sit beside her on Juliet's bed in silence as she drinks.

The days pass, and before you know it, it's Wednesday and Lady Capulet is coming to your bedroom to wake you so you can get ready to be wedded. She leaves you with your dress and with a serving-girl who looks like she's recently been crying. You know this serving-girl, you realize. She was Juliet's companion first, you remember, and then Tybalt's lover, which you know because despite their best efforts to keep things quiet, there was no hiding the way he looked at her and the way she looked at him. She helps you into your wedding dress, a dress that looks too much like the one Juliet was buried in for you to be comfortable in.

"What am I going to do?" You ask, and you don't know if you're asking her or just thinking aloud. The serving girl finishes lacing up your dress before saying, "Whatever you must, to live and try to find happiness even if you can never forget those who are gone."

You turn around to face her, your eyes meeting hers, and you're suddenly struck with the urge to ask her to come live with you at Paris's estate, so you do.

"My lady," she begins, hesitantly, and you know she's going to give you some excuse as to why she can't, so you interrupt her by saying, "Please. I know about you and Tybalt, and I know it must hurt for you too, to have lost him and to have lost Juliet, just like it does me."

You pause, reaching out to take her hands in yours, and continue, "They're gone and we're still here, and it's not fair either way, but it's like you said. Live and try to be happy even if you can never forget who is gone. I need someone with me who knew them as I did, and I think you do as well."

"All right," she says, after a moment, smiling at you sadly. You squeeze her hands in reassurance, and then Lady Capulet is back, to escort you downstairs and out of the only home you've ever known, even if you realize that it has felt less and less like home every day because those who you loved the most are gone. The procession to the chapel is a quiet one, which is unusual for your family, and you can't help but feel like you're going to a funeral instead of a wedding. 

You almost wish it was.

Lord Capulet walks you down the aisle, and leaves you at the altar to go sit down. You look around at the people here for your wedding, starting with your aunt and uncle. Lady Capulet has her ever-present glass of wine with her and Lord Capulet just looks tired. The rest of your family is looking at you with various expressions of sadness and pity. Sitting near Lord Capulet is the Prince, and you look at him and wonder just when his face got so thin and his hair so grey. Beside the Prince is a man that looks so much like Mercutio that you can only assume he's Mercutio's brother Valentine, finally returned to Verona after several years of being away. 

To your surprise, there are even a few Montagues here. One of them, Benvolio, you remember, smiles what you think is a reassuring smile at you, and you manage a smile back at him in return. Everyone here has lost someone within the past month, you realize. The Capulets and the Montagues and even Paris, you realize, turning your gaze to the man that will soon be your husband. The vows leave a bitter taste in your mouth and before you know it, Paris is leaning in to kiss you. 

He parts from you with a radiant grin, and then announces that the reception will be at his home. The reception itself is a dull affair that you drink your way through, only pausing when you're asked to dance, but resuming as soon as you're done. Paris is off, talking to his cousin and uncle, and you savor this last bit of aloneness you get to have before you know you have to go up to his room and consummate the marriage.

All too soon, the reception is over and Paris is leading you upstairs and to what you assume must be his bedroom, and then inside.

"I promise that I will try my best to make you happy," Paris tells you as soon as the door shuts and the two of you are alone. 

"Thank you," you say in response, because you feel like you should say something but you're unsure of what, because you know that he can't make you happy right now, because you don't know how to tell him that part of you died with the slice of a blade against Tybalt's throat and another part died when Juliet slit her own wrists.

"Now, shall we?" Paris asks, with a wide gesture towards the bed. You simply nod in response and begin unlacing your dress. As you shed your clothes, you find yourself glad to be free of them even if you are dreading what comes next. Once you've removed all of your clothes, you turn to find Paris simply watching you, a small smile on his face. When he notices your gaze upon him, he finally begins to undress and you move towards the bed and crawl up onto it.

Paris disrobes himself while you lay back on the bed, looking anywhere but him. You can hear his clothes hit the ground, piece by piece, until there are no more sounds to be heard. Only then do you look up at him, taking in the sight of his tousled hair, the desire in his green eyes, and his one physical flaw: the pink newly-healed scar on his abdomen, just below and to the side of his rib cage. Part of you still wishes that he was dead, that he had died and Tybalt and Juliet had lived, but another part, smaller but still present though bigger than it was last Thursday, can't help but feel pity for him.

Perhaps in time, you can love him or at least grow fond of him, but for now, as he crawls atop you, his cock brushing your thigh before he enters you, you let your mind be filled with thoughts of what should've been.


End file.
